


peachy blush

by odetojoy



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, M/M, beauty guru!Oikawa, boys wearing makeup, can be read as nonbinary oikawa but really it's up to you, i love this headcanon so much i had to turn it into gross fluffy iwaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:30:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6050008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/odetojoy/pseuds/odetojoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tooru waves a hand around; there’s a faint blush on his cheeks, and it’s not the makeup this time. Inside his mind, there’s simply a repetition of something resembling a variation of 'holy shit's and a string of curses. This is so not how he expected his afternoon to go.</p><p>-</p><p>In which Oikawa Tooru wears makeup and likes his best friend a bit too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	peachy blush

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by aphdaichi's headcanon on tumblr and grumpybets' beautiful art about beauty guru/Youtuber Oikawa, which made me really want to write a fic, so here it is!

content

 kənˈtɛnt/

_adjective_

in a state of peaceful happiness.

 

* * *

 

It’s not like it’s a secret, really.

It’s not something he hides, or feels ashamed of. He doesn’t go to some great lengths to conceal it or that he makes some big fat (or any) lies. It’s more or less a hobby. He invests his time and money in it, yes, but unlike his volleyball obsession through the years, it doesn’t _require_ to be talked about, so he keeps quiet. It’s kind of like masturbation, funnily enough, he thinks one night as he’s laying in bed thinking about his shopping list, it’s not something he tells people about or flaunts, but if someone were to ask him if he masturbates, he’d probably shrug his shoulders and say “yeah, so?” because it’s _not_ a secret. What a stupid comparison. He hides his face in his hands.

So if someone were to ask Oikawa Tooru if he used makeup in his free time, it would ninety per cent say the same. Maybe. _Yes_.

 

For reasons Tooru can’t explain in an everyday conversation that lasts for only a couple of minutes, this has been his _thing_ for, well, about half a year or so. He does it when he’s alone at home, when there’s nothing and no one at home but himself and his practiced hands playing with all sorts of liquids and _why does this sound like masturbation again_ . He has a medium sized makeup bag in his bedside drawer, buried underneath a stack of sports magazines and a box of condoms as a disguise, because that’s what _normal_ boys are supposed to like, right?

He doesn’t think his parents would mind either way, it’s not like they’re bigots or that they have traditional views on gender and sexuality or whatever it is that people associate with boys and makeup. They have accepted his orthodox skincare routines through the years, after all. It’s just that. Well. It’s easier.

 

His makeup bag is filled with a number of precious items whose number has grown over the course of the year. A liquid foundation that perfectly matches his skin, concealer, mascara, liner (he still needs to work on his winged eye a bit more), a few neutral eyeshadows, as well as few with shimmer and glitter because he almost gasped when he saw how it made his eyes pop. A couple lipsticks and lip-tints (his favorite was a peachy orange one because of how it matched his skin), and a pretty peach blush.

At first, he experimented with some cheaper drugstore brands - why spend a bunch of money on something you might not even like? And makeup was _expensive_ , he quickly realized.

After a while, though, he decided to try using some more expensive stuff. Let’s just say he was amazed by how a five hundred yen lipstick could sometimes be just as good as a twenty thousand yen one. He lived for his high end foundation, though.

 

* * *

 

Tooru is a second year in junior high when he’s first intrigued by the idea of makeup by his fifteen year old cousin, who asks him to do her foundation while they’re sitting in her room, lazing around on a Sunday.

He looks at her, confused. “How do I do that?”  he asks. When she explains, it still seems sort of confusing to his thirteen year old brain obsessed with volleyball, but she wouldn’t be budged.

“Come on, it’s gonna be fun. You’re just laying there doing nothing, anyways.”

_Rude._

And, well, Tooru wasn’t about to back away from a challenge, be it volleyball or school or even the strange and wild world of beauty.

 

“So you’re saying that as I blend, your skin soaks it in?” he inquiries, and she nods.

They ended up on her bed, facing each other while he applies the pale liquid on her face with a sponge, movements slow and uncertain. He lightly dabs at her cheek; the color smears a bit and he hurries to blend it in. Her skin soaks in some of it, he notices, which he finds a bit to interesting for something that’s apparently so ordinary.

“You can use a brush too, if you want to,” she tells him, and a minute later he announces he feels like a painter as he flicks it over her forehead, making circular motions after she explains it to him.

He probably spends way too long rubbing it into her skin, probably treats her too much like a porcelain doll as well. After all, she wouldn’t break if he applied a bit more pressure, but she doesn’t look like she minds it either way, so he keeps doing his thing. Shaky hands calm after some time, and now he moves with a tentative sort of confidence. It’s sort of like when he just started training volleyball, funnily enough.

Because he was born a perfectionist, when he’s done, the makeup looks practically flawless. No one would guess it wasn’t her skin. She beams at him.

“You do look kind of dead, though. Are you sure you’ve picked the right shade?” he quips from behind her while she’s examining her face in a mirror. She whips her head around.

“Shut up! That’s what blush and bronzers are for!” Not that he knows what either of those things are, but he’s mainly lost interest now, he’s already thinking about practice tomorrow and how to better his serves.

 

* * *

  


After that, he doesn’t really think about makeup and beauty and all that typically feminine stuff. He mostly doesn’t even remember that one time with his cousin. He enters Aoba Jousai High School, joins the volleyball club and puts all of himself into it. He doesn’t have time for much else, with practices, school, exams, an annoying Math teacher he practically loathes, and getting on Iwaizumi’s nerves every with every possible occasion. They decided to go to the same high school, as well. It makes it easier for Tooru, he thinks. Because no matter how confident and full of himself he looks, he needs someone to rely on and trust. And that _someone_ has always, always been Iwaizumi. He’s Tooru’s anchor in a lot more ways and one, he doesn’t want to lose him so soon.

 

It’s only one Friday night, when it’s been long into the A.M.’s and the lights in his rooms are turned off so his parents don’t worry, when he accidentally stumbles into a new corner of YouTube. Well, for _him_ it’s new. Even though by the looks of it, it’s been around since Internet itself.

So he clicks on a suggested video right as he’s watching some shit vines, and he’s tired but can’t sleep. So anything will do right now. The woman in the video is young and cute, talks about her favorite beauty products of the month and lifts them all up for the camera. _What is this_ , he thinks, as she flaunts around a bottle of something he doesn’t even know the name of. Still, it’s soothing. Her voice is not annoying like some of the other people’s on YouTube, and even though she talks in English (not that his English isn’t basically perfect for his age, that’s what he tells himself at least), it’s still not exhausting to listen to her and understand what she’s saying. He isn’t straining himself like he usually is when it comes to foreign languages. She’s got a lot of views, he realizes.

The woman talks about some kind of shampoo that’s supposed to do wonders to your hair, and, well. If Tooru is a sucker for anything, it’s hair products.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he clicks on a video with a thumbnail of a smiling girl as well, at least this time the title is in Japanese. This one is also pretty, with silky black hair and big dark eyes. She seems witty, funny. She’s demonstrating some makeup look that’s apparently for ‘special occasions’ (whatever the hell that means) , applying glittery eyeshadow on her lids with something resembling a paintbrush. She then coats her lashes with what Tooru recognizes is mascara; no matter how dense he is about those sorts of things, even he knows what mascara is. She then sprays her face with something that has him flinching because “ _oh my god is that pepper spray is she trying to kill herself_ ” but the worry quickly dissipates when he registers that the girl is absolutely fine, no traces of rubbing her nicely-done eyes or screaming.

 

He’s entranced. The way people use liquids and powders and brushes and all sorts of things, use their own faces as a canvas - it’s amazing. He never thought he would be amazed by the art of makeup, at least he never expected to be, but as he watches video after video, he has to take it all back.

 

Next day at school, his otherwise beautiful face is adorned with large, dark bags under his eyes; and if Iwaizumi punches his arm and grumbles something about staying too late. Well, it can’t be helped, he thinks with a smile.

 

* * *

 

For about a month, Tooru is content with his late night beauty guru binge watching. It’s something to pass the time, he supposes, and doesn’t dare to think too much about it. He likes videos people put on YouTube, after all. In fact, he likes them that much, that when he says that to Iwaizumi and the other boy shrugs his shoulders and says “I think you’d be good at that,” he actually seriously considers doing it. Not that it’s because it was _Iwa-chan_ who told him that. _Nah._

So one afternoon, he sneaks into his parents’ room and takes his dad’s camera, which is surprisingly good for the price he paid two years ago, when there was a sale in the tech shop at the mall. He sets it up on his desk so that his his face is in a good angle, all up to his torso in the shot. He feels awkward and uneasy as he turns the camera on and talks to it in the emptiness of his room. Before he knows it, he has filmed the video, edited it and uploaded it on the website. He doesn’t think much about it as he watches the greyish line go right, right, right, all until it says “ _upload complete_ ” and he presses the button.

He doesn’t think much about it next day either, he goes to school and bickers with his Math teacher, at practice he works just as hard as every other day, after school he grabs lunch with Iwaizumi and steals some of his fries.

All in all, it’s a day just like every other. So when he gets home and opens his laptop, which he left on his newly made YouTube account, he can’t help it if his breath hitches when he sees the amount of views and comments on his first video. A lot of them are about his good looks (he can’t really blame them), or his sense of humour (again, can’t blame them). _Wow._ He feels a little burst of self-confidence, at which Iwaizumi would probably say he doesn’t need no more. But still, it’s a nice feeling.

  


He’s at the supermarket one weekend, trying to find his mother’s usual shampoo along the isles, “ _It’s that expensive yellow one,_ ” he reminds himself. The store is pretty crowded, everyone is doing their weekly shopping today, no wonder. So he doesn’t really know how he finds himself in the isle with makeup. Bright logos of beauty companies he recognizes from television commercials with slogans such as ‘ _You were born with it!_ ’ or ‘ _Because you’re worth it_ ’ or “ _Think differently_ ” (“What the hell does that one have to do with beauty?” Tooru thinks.)

“It doesn’t hurt to look,” he thinks. Ten minutes later he’s at the register, paying for a bottle of expensive shampoo and a mascara he absolutely accidentally picked up on his way.

 

That’s how he finds himself in his bathroom, in front of a mirror, heart beating fast. He doesn’t know what he’s nervous about anyway; maybe that it will end up not being for him. Or failing, which is always his biggest fear. He almost calls up Iwaizumi and asks him of his opinion, but he doesn’t really know how the other boy will react, so he doesn’t.

He cleanses his face, does everything he’d normally do, and gives himself a once-over yet again. He twists open the tube and examines the black-coated brush in his hand. It looks normal enough, he supposes. He still stands by his opinion how you could probably stab someone with this, but hey. The brush is a bit curved and spiky, covered in black thick liquid that sticks to the spikes. He holds it to his face, fist trying to practice the motions an inch or two away from his actual lashes. When he thinks he’s gotten the hang of it, he does it for real. He quickly realizes that the real thing is quite different, lets his eyelashes flutter closed and then opens them again, wiggles the wand a bit until he’s certain he’s gotten every strand. It’s a funny sensation.

When he concludes he’s finished, he closes the tube, and looks at himself in the mirror once again, this time in a big shot, not just trying not to stick a wand in his eye.  

At first it’s kinda hard to notice he’s wearing anything on his face. He didn’t put a shit-ton of it, but he thought it would show up more. But when he inspects his face better, he notices the way his eyes look more open, more elegant. It _is_ pretty, he realizes.

He gets an idea and starts rummaging through his mother’s makeup bag in the cupboard by the sink; finds a kind of neutral, nude lipstick, and turns to the mirror once again.

He presses it against his lips and drags it across his lower one, after that, he smacks his lips together to get it all even. It looks nice. He could easily get used to looking like this. (Not that his natural look is anything short of perfect already.)

After that, he keeps looking at himself in the mirror. He opts to brush his teeth before he takes off the makeup, just because he wants to get used to the slightly modified version of him in the reflection. He even snaps a few selfies on his phone, even though he’s always considered bathroom selfies tacky. _It’ll do,_ he thinks, a bit disappointed; he still doesn’t think he wants to explain this to his mother if she catches him on his way to the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Oikawa Tooru is almost seventeen, a great volleyball player and captain, a loving and gentle friend to his classmates and kouhai, something resembling a YouTuber (??) and a lovestruck idiot who just recently realized he has a crush on his best friend. As in -- a male best friend. A best friend who he’s known since they were both so young they peed in their pants because they didn’t know how to hold it properly and competed in who could eat the most boogers. His best friend who’s currently, at the same age he is, kinda buff and tan and nice looking even though he has a permanent scowl on his face, which is really just _not good_ because he’s going to get premature wrinkles even though his face is actually perfect and he doesn’t mind it that much. His best friend who is actually Iwaizumi Hajime - a dick who is currently glaring daggers at him because of his third missed serve in a row. It isn’t Tooru’s fault that he’s been kind of distracted by the sudden realization that he would maybe quite possibly like to pin his best friend against a wall. And make out with him and climb him like a tree in more ways than one. Oh, and when Tooru said he had _recently_ realized his crush, he meant like, right now.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, just as there’s a ball flying right in the center of his face.

“Oi, Oikawa, are you just gonna stand there spacing out?” he hears Iwaizumi’s voice from the other end of the court. Tooru waves his arms around.

“Iwa chan! You can’t just go around ruining my beautiful face! I mean, I know you’re jealous, but--” he doesn’t get to finish before there’s a sound of Iwaizumi going “Shut up, Shittykawa,” and serving another ball at his head. This time, though, he catches it, and can’t suppress a satisfied smirk forming on his lips.

“Stop making that face, you look like you’ve just won a lottery.”

Iwaizumi is sweaty, his muscles seem tense from practice in all the best places and he looks at Tooru with that expression he gets when he’s actually pretty fond but wants to act exasperated instead. It’s endearing. Hanamaki yells something from the back that’s probably supposed to be an insult to both of them, but Tooru has a hard time concentrating.

“Makki, stop babysitting us!” he yells across the court. He catches Iwaizumi’s gaze and sees him grinning softly, raising his eyebrows at Tooru. He bumps their shoulders and Tooru leans into his touch, noticing how natural it comes to him, for the first time in his life. How dense can he get. They walk back to Hanamaki and Iwaizumi is talking about spiking a ball into his face, but it doesn’t faze him really.

He grins even wider. He is so fucked.

 

* * *

 

Iwaizumi Hajime has always been a constant in Tooru’s life.

Ever since they were little, Hajime the aggressive one and Tooru the whiny one, meeting because Hajime’s family moved in from another town. Tooru had been wary, even though the other boy apologized for almost running over him with a bike a bunch of times already. But Tooru is a brat, like Hajime has already said many _many_ times before, even as they grew older, so the start of their friendship is tentative, something that isn’t brought spontaneously with an _It’s meant to be_ running through either of their minds, but rather developed from the close proximity and the fact neither of them could stand being around other people much longer. “You are my main source of migraines,” Hajime tells Oikawa when they’re twelve and he has probably only recently found out what migraines are. Tooru laughs and gives him a look that says how he doesn’t buy any of which Hajime is saying, turns around and continues bouncing a volley ball against a wall in his backyard. Hajime trips him and they end up tangled on the floor as Tooru knocks into him, yelling something about _his precious face and body_ and _Why would you try to ruin it_ and _Are you jealous, Iwa-chan?_ Sometimes, Hajime wonders if he’s a masochist or something, because the way he keeps tolerating Oikawa’s shit even through the inevitable pounding in his head and a vein popping on his forehead. There are times when he wonders as how many good deeds God counts putting up with Tooru’s coy smile and quips about Hajime’s new haircut or whatever he finds interesting to poke at that day.

On the one hand, they are polar opposites, something that most people notice a short while after they meet the two of them. Tooru is loud and showy, flaunts his talents and enjoys popularity more than anyone. Hajime isn’t like that. He’s pretty quiet when he doesn’t have to yell at or threaten Tooru, he doesn’t mind the attention he gets from being the ace of his team but he doesn’t bathe in it like Tooru, either. But on the other hand, they balance each other out perfectly, even though it isn’t something that’s noticable to most eyes. When Tooru overworks and stresses out, Hajime soothes the worries gnawing at him, patches up the hole Tooru has dug up inside himself, and lets them both try anew. Tooru stays up at the gym too late, fucks up his knee and some other body parts while he’s at it because, if you’re going to fuck yourself up, fuck up badly. Go big or go home, or something like that. Hajime knocks him out with a spike to the head or a headbutt and gives him a pep talk, which usually gets the job done. While at the same time, Tooru is the one who keeps him moving, flowing, changing through the years and refusing to settle for anything _not enough_.

For how much Tooru trashtalks everyone that crosses paths with him ever, his most frequent victim is one and only Oikawa Tooru himself. From time to time, Tooru uses his self-deprecating techniques to wallow in misery and bring himself down (completely unnecessary); blames self for something he couldn’t be responsible for even if he tried (also completely unnecessary). Tooru’s self-deprecating, combined with his self-destructive tendencies, doesn’t equal anything pretty. But Hajime is still there, always is and always will be, even if it means holding Oikawa while he’s ugly crying - snot and tears everywhere.

Other times, Tooru is the one who notices the tension in his shoulders from sleepless nights spent over Biology and Physics and Chemistry textbooks, studying for exams he _needs_ to pass because his best friend told him never to settle for anything less than what he wants; and it sometimes takes the best of him because his family doesn’t have enough money to send him to university, he needs a scholarship - and to get a scholarship, he needs the _best_ scores possible. Even though the doubts are clouding his mind, Tooru is still there, handing him a cup of chamomile tea and ushering him to sleep “so he doesn’t faint during practice tomorrow”.  Tooru falls asleep next to him on top of the blankets, after Hajime reluctantly asks him not to go, not tonight. He catches his eyes and gives him a smile, one of those that are tight around the eyes, but Hajime is too tired to prod.

 

But they’re good. They’re good, as they always are, and they are both happy, even though it doesn’t always look like it - this is just their way of doing things.

 

* * *

 

It’s a Saturday afternoon, they are lazing around in Iwaizumi’s room, sunlight slipping through the windows. Iwaizumi is sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the bed, typing away the essay he should’ve done days ago, since it’s due tomorrow and Tooru remembers taking him to the library for research. Tooru, on the other hand, is on Hajime’s bed, scrolling through the comments on his latest video and enlarging his ego even more.

He glances at Iwaizumi every now and again, notices the focused look on his face, the chew of his lip as he spots a formula he doesn’t particularly understand. Tooru catches the way light falls and reflects on Iwaizumi’s eyes and tan skin, and he has always liked the shade of his skin and how it practically _glowed_ in sunlight. And wow, this is really fucking gay.

It’s all fine and perfectly dandy until Iwazumi turns to him, a calculating look on his face.

“What is it, Iwa-chan?” he tries to appear nonchalant.

Iwaizumi looks him in the eyes and raises an eyebrow, a look Tooru has learned to decipher as “ _don’t bullshit me_ ” one. After a brief second, though, his gaze turns softer. He clears his throat.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Tooru has the strongest urge to slam his head against the headboard, but surprisingly enough, refrains. Instead, he doesn’t avert his eyes and puts on (something resembling) a brave face.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, in what is his usual tone reserved for teachers and girls in the hallway, people who don’t mean anything to him, and he hates that he’s talking to Iwaizumi like this, but he really can’t help it. It’s a defense mechanism.

Iwaizumi looks as if he’s five seconds away from pulling out his hair because of the way Tooru keeps avoiding the subject, but he stays surprisingly calm.

“Come on, Oikawa, you know what I’m talking about.”

Tooru swallows. He does. “I don’t.”

Iwaizumi sighs and looks around the room, closes his laptop and hesitantly climbs onto the bed. He shifts a bit to make himself more comfortable - facing Tooru - and settles on crossing his legs turkish-style, leaning his hands on each of his thighs. He looks at Tooru with that calculating look of his.

“Are we really going to do this?”

Tooru crosses his arms immaturely, and it makes him look like a five-year-old. “Well, I suppose. Considering how you’re behaving.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Oh jesus, are you really doing this?”

Tooru can feel himself making that bitchy face he always does when he’s being defensive, which he really probably shouldn’t, but he’s just _too_ uncomfortable right now.

“Yes.”

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “Okay, but you didn’t even let me finish.”

“You interrupted _yourself_.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. You wanted _me_ to finish. And I’m not doing that.”

“You’re acting really immature.”

“ _Me_?” Tooru points to his chest in a mocking gesture.

Iwaizumi holds his hands up, as if he surrenders. “Okay, maybe I was a bit immature, but not as _you_.” Tooru scoffs.

“Whatever,” he starts. “What is it that you wanted to say, anyway?” He seems a bit colder now, more distant. But underneath the surface, someone who knows Tooru well (like, for an example, a really nicely built _dick_ who’s sitting in front of him _right. Now._ ) can probably slip through the facade and notice the uncertainty and fear that lies underneath.

Iwaizumi shifts closer and puts a hand on Tooru’s shoulder, in a way he knows will console him. Instead, Tooru freezes a bit, despite the fact they’ve done this hundreds, maybe thousands times before (and that this kind of physical contact is so small for them, they usually don’t even recognize it). He quirks a brow, even though it’s the tiniest bit shaky, and lets out a raspy, humorless laugh. “Aren’t you disgusted to touch me now?”

Iwaizumi looks as if someone just insulted his entire family, and reels back a bit, squinting at Tooru. “What are you talking about?”

“Stop it,” he grits through his teeth.

“Tooru,” Iwaizumi puts his hands on each of Tooru’s shoulders now, forcing him to look him in the eyes. “It’s me, Tooru. Stop shutting me out.”

He breathes in once, twice, three times. He can feel his pulse slowing down, he doesn’t feel too panicked anymore.

“I’m not saying it out loud.”

Iwaizumi hums. “And why is that?”

Tooru closes his eyes and shrugs. “Because.”

“Wow.”

He laughs.

“Thank you for that lengthy explanation, Trashkawa.”

“Anytime.”

They sit like that for a moment, soaking in the sunlight from the windows in the stuffy room. Tooru keeps looking at the bed sheets like they’re the most interesting thing in the world, follows the patterns with the tips of his fingers, while he can feel Iwaizumi’s eyes boring into him. He doesn’t dare to look up.

Because, no matter what Iwaizumi says, the fact is - things can never stay the same, the way they were before. They can’t, because Iwaizumi _knows_ and that’s bad enough, but it would be even worse if Tooru said it out loud, confirmed his suspicions and made everything sixty times worse. He couldn’t stand Iwaizumi looking him with different eyes, being uncomfortable around him. All he’s known in life is the comfort and safety Iwaizumi brings, he _can’t_ lose it. If Iwaizumi changes because of Tooru’s feelings, if _they_ change, he doesn’t know what’d he do. Probably scream into a pillow because he’s pathetic and avoids things and never works on solutions, but still. It wouldn’t be good.

Iwaizumi can never never _never_ know that Tooru is in love with him.

Iwaizumi puts a hand on his left shoulder, it soothes Tooru, in a strange way. “I know it’s hard to say it out loud,” he begins. “But just try. Look - we can say it both at the same time.”

Tooru’s eyes widen comically. No. No no no no. That sounds even worse. He can’t really stomach the idea of Iwaizumi saying _I know you’re in love with me_.

“Nope. Not happening.”

Iwaizumi looks somewhere between rolling his eyes to the back of his head and being unusually gentle and kind to Tooru.

After a couple minutes of awkward silence, Tooru sits a bit straighter and rolls his shoulders back, coming to a decision. This kind of tension between them can’t get any worse, so he might as well just say it.

“But promise me you won’t walk away from me.”

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “It’s me, Oikawa.”

Tooru takes a deep breath, as if to calm his nerves. He looks up to the ceiling and counts to five, _one, two, three_ … He briefly wonders if he could run out of the room before Iwaizumi catches him, but then he realizes that the very douchebag he’s trying to run away from is fucking _blocking_ his way to the door. Well, it’s jumping out of the window then. It _is_ pretty high, though, but it’s not stopping him. His knee has dealt with worse before. Maybe it would be easier to land on his butt, even though that can’t be any good for his spine. Dammit.

“I’m in love with you.”

It’s out before he even registers what’s happening, and he feels like stuffing his head under a pillow and not facing the world ever, ever again. Ever. Despite what his teammates say, he’s not quite that dramatic, but out of sheer exasperation, he puts his face in his hands, fighting not to scream into his hands and missing a look of shock on Iwaizumi’s face.

He registers a pillow knocking into his head that sends him two feet backwards on the bed and hears Iwaizumi’s voice over him.

“What the _fuck_ , Asskawa, don’t just spring that on me!” there’s another pillow hit, this time in his stomack.

“The hell, Iwa-chan?”

“I meant the whole _makeup_ thing, not this!”

 _Oh_ . That makes sense. Probably more than Iwaizumi knowing Tooru is in love with him. Not that the cat isn’t out of the bag already. _Both of them_. Tooru can feel a lump in his throat forming, even though he refuses to acknowledge it. It’s not like he can do anything about this whole situation now anyway. He squints one eye open to look at his best friend, who wears that grumpy (read: insecure and confused) expression he sometimes gets. He shrugs.

“Well. Sorry I guess.” He averts his gaze to a particularly ugly Godzilla poster above Iwaizumi’s desk, thinking if he could get away with putting his sci-fi movie posters instead of this horrendously old one. _It’s a classic_ , Iwaizumi would say after Tooru made fun of him for spending more than a few thousand yen on the _original_ (wow) poster. Well, it’s not like he knows that the two of them will be around each other any more either way. He has a special skill of fucking everything up. He’s so deep in his own (semi-)ironic self pity, ugly kaomojis Hanamaki sends him whenever he thinks he’s being particularly funny dancing in front of his eyes, he doesn’t notice how strangely quiet Iwaizumi has gotten.

“Are you serious about that?” he hears Iwaizumi’s ragged voice, and he turns around to see him fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Iwaizumi _never_ fidgets. Fuck.

He nods once, because he doesn’t believe his own voice not to betray him, and if he opens his mouth there’s a ninety five per cent chance he’ll say something incredibly stupid which he’ll regret 0.2 seconds it’s out of his mouth. He swallows a lump that’s been forming in his throat a while now. Well, it can’t be _that_ bad, considering Iwaizumi still hadn’t run away (he knows Iwaizumi is not better than running out of his own house when he’s uncomfortable, he’s speaking from experience) or punched Oikawa in the nose (weird). He’s biting his lip and looking at Oikawa every few seconds, like he’s inspecting something that shouldn’t be toyed with.

“Mhm,” he says after a nod, since Iwaizumi still hasn’t said anything.

Iwaizumi’s eyes flick towards Tooru’s once again, and this time, there’s a glint of hope in his eyes. Tooru has never been more confused.

“You sure?” he says. It’s so unusual to see Iwaizumi, his best friend, unsure of himself. While to everyone else, Tooru was the one who shined with confidence, it wasn’t really like that. Tooru was three fourths false bravado and fake smiles, while Iwaizumi was the more quiet one of the two, but more confident nonetheless. When Tooru had his moments of stupidness (which was pretty often), Iwaizumi’s common sense was there to bring him back, so it was, lightly put, unnerving, to see him uncertain, almost _scared._

Now it’s Tooru’s turn to knock him down with a pillow. “Obviously, idiot! Why would I joke about something like that?”

“You joked about your dog dying the other day!”

“Oh yeah,” Tooru remembers and giggles in spite of himself. That was funny, he remembers. After a few moments, even Iwaizumi’s terse expression goes softer. He shuffles closer to Tooru and meets his gaze, corners of mouth quirking up. There’s something fond in the way Iwaizumi looks at him, like he’s been waiting for this a really long time.

“You serious, though?”

Tooru rolls his eyes and shifts uncomfortably. “Yes, obviously.”

A grin spreads across Iwaizumi’s face and he positively _glows_ , lens closer to Tooru and cups his cheeks.

“Oh my god.”

“I know.”

Tooru blinks. “Wait. You like me?”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, but a smile doesn’t drop from his face. “Kinda.”

“Holy shit.”

“I know.”

“What the fuck.”

“How eloquent.”

“So it’s fine if I press my lips against yours?”

Honestly, there should be a limit to the number of times Iwaizumi rolls his eyes to Tooru’s antics. “You mean kiss?”

Tooru waves a hand around; there’s a faint blush on his cheeks, and it’s not the makeup this time. Inside his mind, there’s simply a repetition of variations of something resembling _holy shit_ and a string of curses. This is _so_ not how he expected his afternoon to go. “Yeah, whatever.”

Iwaizumi then honest to god _giggles_ and presses his face closer to Tooru’s, peppermint breath ghosting across his lips. Then they both lean in at the same time and Tooru can see fireworks behind his closed lids, and again there’s a string of _holyshitholyshitholyshit_ going through his head. It’s a nice, chaste kiss, not lasting more than six seconds (Tooru counted) and then they’re pulling apart, both unable to stop smiling. Their gazes meet and they’re laughing again, mumbling about how stupid they were all this time. They fall back on Iwaizumi’s bed, Tooru with his back pressed to the mattress, hair splayed out on the pillow in every direction possible. He looks at Iwaizumi, who’s hovering above him, and it’s like he’s seeing him for the first time all over again. Sun is setting behind him and he is bathed in orange glow coming from the window, making him appear so _warm_ , like there’s no place he’d rather be at this moment. It feels like he’s looking at him for hours, even though it is probably just a few moments, and then they’re kissing again, Iwaizumi pulling back after three seconds because Tooru can’t keep the smile off his face. It’s so like _them_ , honestly, it’s just how Tooru would imagine, but at the same time it’s nothing alike.

The third kiss is somewhat slower, more languid, isn’t as fumbled as the first two. At least it is for some time, until Tooru pulls back with a _pop_ a sudden realization coming to him.

“Hold up. How the fuck did you find out about the makeup thing?”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “I don’t know. I had a hunch. Like I usually do with things related to you.”

Tooru quirks an eyebrow. “But you didn’t have a hunch when it came to me wanting to stick a tongue down your throat?”

Iwaizumi _blushes_ , and if it wasn’t so endearing, Tooru would be laughing at him so hard right now. “Shut up.”

Tooru nips at his lower lip, thinking. “You don’t mind it? The whole me wearing makeup thing?”

Iwaizumi reaches out to touch Tooru’s face, tips of his fingers ghosting across his cheekbones. “Of course not, idiot. You know I’m not like that.”

And honestly, Tooru is so head over heels in love with this boy.

 

The sun sets slowly and envelops the room in darkness; but both of them are too content to move and turn the lights on. A bottle of water sits on the bedside table, along with a few papers ripped from Iwaizumi’s Chemistry homework, small dots and lines and circles dancing across the pearly white. The window is still open, and there’s a faint sound of crickets coming into the room - it would be annoying Tooru, if he wasn’t so comfortable right now. Moon is hung high on the sky, illuminating the room in its faint glow. Tooru looks at the boy laying next to him, with his head leaning on the crook of Tooru’s shoulder, nose scrunched up in sleep. For the first time, he doesn’t have to resist the urge to kiss his forehead when he’s like this, doesn’t have to stop his fingers from pulling a strand of his hair away from his eyes.

He feels like they’re kids again, five and having first ever sleepovers, talking with torch lights under the comforter, arguing over whether dinosaurs or aliens were cooler. Only this time, it’s so _so_ much better.


End file.
